Work Text:
Usually, Sam would be the one with half his body under a car, but for some reason, Bucky had practically begged to be the one to take the lead in fixing up this old car they’d found.
It’s a 1973 model Pontiac Firebird, coloured a deep, dark cobalt blue. It’s rusty in many places and it currently doesn’t run at all, but that’s why Bucky has taken to it so quickly and so heavily. When they’re not being called out to do missions, Bucky spends nearly every waking minute and hour in Sam’s garage, fixing the Firebird up.
Sam could ask why this car is so important to Bucky, but, really, it doesn’t matter that much. At least this way, Bucky’s reasoning for being a recluse isn’t one hundred percent the guilt that’s been eating him up inside. Instead, it’s to look way too hot all covered in grease and oil and sweat while Sam watches his muscles work as he fixes the car.
Bucky pushes himself out from under the Firebird’s body, reaching for the well-used grease rag on his hip. He wipes his hands briefly before tucking it back into the waist and of his jeans, and Sam watches the entire exchange.
Really, he looks way too good like this.
“You could be a mechanic for real,” Sam says without thinking, leaning against his hand.
For a moment, Bucky doesn’t acknowledge him, and then seconds later he’s looking up at Sam with an eyebrow raised.
Sam shrugs a shoulder. “Just sayin’, man. If you wanted to quit this whole hero business? You could easily just move out to some small town, open up shop, and you’d be set for life.”
Bucky snorts as he pushes himself up off the creeper, his eyebrow rising higher onto his forehead. “You tryin’ to get rid of me that quick, Wilson?”
Sam throws his head back as he laughs, arm dropping on top of the worker’s bench he’s been leaning against. Bucky stands up from the floor, metal arm twisting in a full 180 before he’s stepping up to Sam, slipping his hand to Sam’s waist and curling around it. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of Sam’s mouth, the smell of all that car grease and oil stronger now that he’s closer.
Turning his head, Sam captures Bucky’s lips in a real kiss, and Bucky grins into it.
“I don’t think you’d be able to handle me living so far away as a mechanic, all on my lonesome,” Bucky teases, shaking his head. “You’d miss being able to ogle the lower half of my body while my head’s precariously perched under a car. Plus, I think your nephews would miss me too much.”
Another laugh leaves Sam as he shoves Bucky’s shoulder, rolling his eyes. “Man, I don’t ogle at anything.”
“Oh, yeah? You don’t?” Bucky arches his eyebrow again. “So you haven’t been sitting here, staring at my thighs for the past hour and a half while I’ve been workin’ on Birdie?”
“Birdie?” Sam snorts, raising his own eyebrow. “Seriously? You couldn’t have thought of a better name for your car, which is a model Firebird?”
“Hey,” Bucky protests, lightly smacking Sam’s hip. “Birdie was a common nickname back in the 20’s, alright. Sue me for being a little nostalgic for it.”
Another snort leaves Sam as he reaches behind himself to the worker’s bench, groping blindly until he grabs onto a tool he knows Bucky needs. He pulls his hand around and pushes the tool to Bucky’s chest, giving him a cocky half-grin as he does.
“Hurry up and get back under there so I can ogle at you some more, Barnes.”
Bucky returns the grin, stepping back with his hand over the tool. “You drive a hard bargain, Wilson.”
He works on the Firebird—Birdie—for another hour before Sam gets tired of only ogling and wants to do some actual touching.